


Staying Alive

by Dead_Is_The_New_Sexy



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Vulnerable Sebastian, mormor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-14 17:07:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29545602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dead_Is_The_New_Sexy/pseuds/Dead_Is_The_New_Sexy
Summary: After the incidents of Reichenbach, Sebastian Moran is confronted with the death of his boss, Jim Moriarty. He spends the next week blaming himself for the loss. But just as he begins to get used to his new life alone, the next surprise knocks him off his feet.
Relationships: Sebastian Moran/Jim Moriarty
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	Staying Alive

Sebastian Moran could only stare. Every nerve in his body seemed frozen; every bone turned to jelly. His knees were weak and threatened to collapse out from under him.

“He told us to come get him after—after it was over. He ordered us to dispose of the body immediately after picking it up but, we thought you’d like to see him first.”

Sebastian turned his head up to look up at the man who addressed him. He was one of Moriarty’s hitmen; Spearman, a fellow soldier. They had met once before when both men were hired by Moriarty to take care of some “clean up” work. Sebastian’s gaze as he looked at the soldier was unwavering and cold. Spearman did not meet his eyes, but kept them glued to the bed in front of him.

“I’m sorry Moran,” he added in an awkwardly muffled tone. He locked eyes with Sebastian for a brief moment before turning and exiting the room, followed by the two other guards, leaving Sebastian alone.

Sebastian’s gaze did not falter. His body shook with an involuntary sharp intake of breath. The air was cold. Everything was white and cold, blank. He’d been in his fair share of morgues, but none as daunting as this. He hadn’t wanted to come in the first place. When he’d gotten Spearman’s call that afternoon, he’d felt sick. It wasn’t the loss that plagued his mind; he’d had plenty of loss in his life already. He was used to it. But this loss, somehow, hit different.

He shut his eyes. He had repressed the horrible reality of it all until now as it stared him down, threatening to conquer his sanity. He couldn’t look down; couldn’t face it. The voices in his mind grew louder and louder, taunting him. He tried to repress the dictativeness of his fear. Running was not the answer, of course he never had run from his problems. But never had he wanted to do so more than now. 

He opened his eyes and looked down at the table in front of him. He screamed and screamed and pleaded for this to stop—for this hell to be over—but his mouth was wired shut and his body seemed to no longer answer to his will. The white sheet was a peaceful distraction from the pain that it concealed. Sebastian watched helplessly as his hand reached down and pulled back the curtain of death. A cry failed to escape his lips as his brain began to process the sight before him.

Jim Moriarty’s body lay limp on the metal table. Eyes still open, mouth still open, formed in his iconic smirk, his Westwood suit still perfectly neat and straight; nothing different from normal. But he knew that under that façade of normality it was far from that. Moriarty had shot himself in the mouth, he’d been told. The back of his head had been blown off. It was as simple as that; no tricks. The selfish bastard had killed himself for no reason at all except for the sole purpose of winning his stupid game. But he hadn’t won had he, and this wasn’t a game anymore.

He realized only when his chest began to ache that he’d been holding his breath. It came out all at once like he’d been punched in the stomach. That felt pretty accurate too. He had never felt more desperate, more alone, than he did right now. Jim had said people die, but Sebastian had never thought that he would too. 

His stomach churned. He really did think he was going to be sick. But he couldn’t look away. His eyes were glued to the body of the man who had been his boss. No, not just his boss. He now took the liberty to admit to himself that Jim had also been the man he loved, and he would even go as far as to say, his friend. 

He stood there for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, his legs gave way and he stumbled backward into a plastic chair against the smooth cold wall. His breaths were staggered and heavy. His eyes broke away from the table and he stared into nothingness. He thought about all the times he had been angry at Jim for putting himself in danger. Jim always seemed to think he was indestructible. He was too cocky for his own good and now he was dead; he was dead because Sebastian, once again, had failed to do his duty and it had cost him everything.

•••

Two days passed, then three, then four. A week went by without anything exceptional. The world around him moved on, but he remained frozen in time. For Sebastian, that day never passed. Instead, he relived it, going over and over and over again his failures and shortcomings. He hadn’t eaten, had barely slept. He understood that he was rotting away sitting in this hell hole that he’d made it, but he just didn’t have the motivation anymore to change that.

He’d remained laying on the junky sofa since he’d returned from the morgue, except for the occasional trip to use the bathroom. He spent his days fixated on the empty chair across from him. He’d seen this coming. They had discussed Jim’s potential plan, and he had managed to talk Jim out of it; that the plan of, as the newspapers now read, “Death of Fake Genius”, was too risky; there was just too much room for something to go wrong. Jim had left the flat that morning assuring Sebastian’s frustrated person that he wouldn’t do anything rash and that everything would be alright.

"Come on Sebby, I can take care of myself for a few hours. Just remember dear, I’ll do what I want. But conveniently for you I’ve gotten bored and have already thought of at least a dozen other ways to have some fun. You wanted time to go have some shooting practice today anyway. Go distract yourself some, take the edge off. I don’t like you when you’re so tense. Oh, and by the way, stop by the store and pick up some milk. We’re almost out."

He seemed so relaxed, brushing it off like it was no big deal, like they hadn’t just been discussing matters of life and death. Everything was just as it should be, nothing to be upset about. He said he’d take care of it. Oh, but Sebastian knew now that he should have known that Jim would do something like this. That was the way Moriarty had always gone about manipulation; relaxing you, getting you to trust him completely, and just when you’d thought you’d figured out the sweet Irish pansy, that’s when he made it known to you that you were fucked. Though Sebastian knew, of course, that all this was his fault anyway. He’d had a rotten feeling all day that he’d shoved down by keeping himself busy. But when Sebastian called to ask what time he should be home and Jim didn’t pick up the phone, he knew the mistake he’d made. Jim was attached to that phone. He never let a call go unanswered, and there was no way that Jim would ever miss a call, especially from Sebastian. The phone rang once, then twice. Again and again it rang, and he knew something was wrong. He could hear the ringtone playing to the tune of Staying Alive. Every part of him knew that Jim Moriarty was in some sort of danger, but he did nothing. One more failure in his duties to add to the list that seemed to be growing ever heavier.

All the weight of his conscience pressed down upon him, but it occurred to him that some of that weight was also his bladder. He listlessly arose and walked into the closet-sized bathroom. It bore the faint smell of mildew. The gray wallpaper that had been on the walls when he’d moved in, was now peeling off in small flakes. When he was finished, he caught a look of himself in the mirror. 

"Holy shit," he thought. "Is that me?"

The creature that stared back at Sebastian through the mirror was not someone he recognized. The eyes, which were underlined by dark bags, were sunken in a pallid complected face, on which the light stubble had grown unruly. The blond hair was a greasy matted mess. The shirt was horribly wrinkled and sweat stained. The air around him was tinted gray with smoke; his smoking habit, which Jim had tried with no sucess to end, had become especially bad in his slump. He leaned over the counter to examine the face closer. He moaned. So, he did, after all, look as bad as he felt. But seeing that in the mirror, some part of his pride was resurrected. He was better than this. If the rest of life became meaningless, he at least wanted to be able to have his appearance be something to be proud of, even if the rest of it was shit.

He spent the next hour cleaning himself up. He took a shower, gave himself a clean shave, put on a clean pair of low-waisted black jeans and a white V-neck T-shirt, and ate a breakfast of cereal. A breath of fresh air was also essential; not doing anything, just a change of scenery. He grabbed his keys and his Glock and traversed down to the nearby parking garage to his black Ford truck. It was a nice day, cool with a refreshing breeze.

He drove around downtown for a bit, and saw people shopping, laughing; generally enjoying life. He found that didn’t help his sulking mood much, so he drove farther out to the countryside. He turned on the radio to his favorite music station and rolled the windows down. The gentle rolling hills of the moors and the soft retro music created a nice atmosphere—the atmosphere he needed. After a while, the voices of his conscience ceased, and the anxiety lessened enough that he could breathe deeply. He got to a place in the hills where there was no sign of civilization, except for a few roaming domestic horses. He instinctively reached down to turn the radio off. His body stiffened and he sat up straight in his seat from his relaxed posture. He and Jim rode along this road together often—Jim usually wanted to take the scenic route—and Jim always asked him to turn his music off. Jim had a very different style preference, especially when it came to music. Sebastian let out a slow, quaky breath and turned off the radio. Somehow, it still seemed right, even without Jim there. He spent the rest of his excursion in silence and seclusion.

After a few hours, he found himself back in the parking garage, renewed to a sense of sanity. He parked his Ford back in its usual spot, and hiked back up the stairs to his flat. He fiddled with the keys in his pocket for a moment and then inserted the correct one into the lock. He turned the knob.

Sebastian froze. Behind the door in front of him he could hear faint music emanating. He knew that he hadn’t left the radio on when he’d left. Adrenaline flooded his system. Someone had broken into his flat while he was gone. With his other hand, he reached behind him to pull the Glock out of its holster on his belt. He let go of the knob to hold the gun with both hands and pointed it steadily forward, arms straight. He then kicked open the door, rushing inside with two long strides.

'Got the wings of heaven on my shoes; I’m a dancing man, and I just can’t lose.'

His jaw fell open. His hands grew cold and began to quake. He could feel his face growing paler. He tried to stutter something, but his mouth moved without sound.

'But it’s alright, it’s ok. We live to see another day.'

The Glock fell from his trembling hands, and clattered loudly as it hit the tile floor. He couldn’t move. He could only stare in fear and disbelief.

'We can’t try to understand the New York Times effect on man.'

The music taunted him. It played on, piercing through the thick air. Despite the panic that raced chaotically through every part of him, he let out a low chuckle.

'Stayin Alive, Stayin Alive, Ah Ah Ah Ah!'

The criminal before him rose slowly up out of the neglected chair. The corner of his mouth turned up in a smirk. He held his arms outward in a welcoming gesture. His dark eyes were fixed on Sebastian’s, penetrating his every thought.

“Did you miss me?”

•••

James Moriarty stood there, alive. Sebastian’s chuckle began morphed slowly into a quiet laugh.

“You son of a bitch…”

Jim’s mouth contorted upward in a smug, lopsided grin. “Well, I wouldn’t put it exactly like that.” 

Jim shambled over to him. He was so much shorter than the soldier that Sebastian had to turn his head downward to meet Jim’s eyes.

“You didn’t answer my question.” Jim cooed.

Sebastian stopped laughing. His face went dead of emotion. Jim didn’t draw back. They kept staring into one another’s eyes. Sebastian had stumbled backward so that his back was pressed straight up against the sloppily plastered wall. Moriarty licked his lips and his eyes flickered as they played along every inch of the expressionless face that was but only inches from his own. Under any other circumstances, Sebastian's face would have been tinted a bright pink in response to any of Jim’s flirtation. The silence between them was only broken by the soft, steady background Bee Gees music.

Sebastian grabbed Jim’s shoulders. Jim grinned even wider, but quickly his face grew distorted with confusion. Sebastian’s hold on him was too tight for comfort.

“What—”

Sebastian, with the whole of his body weight, lifted Jim up off the floor and pressed him up against the opposite kitchen wall of the small kitchen. Jim’s eyes grew wide with panic. One of Sebastian’s hands was now placed uncomfortably on Jim’s neck. His reflex was to cough, but it came out as more of a stifled gasp. Sebastian’s head was against Jim’s chest, his face pointed to the ground.

“How... How could you do it?”

“Well,” Jim choked out, “It really wasn’t that diffi—”

“No, you fucking idiot! How could you do that to me?”

The tiger’s loud spitting demand caught Jim entirely off guard. With that Sebastian looked up, his face inches from Jim’s. His face was flushed. Two tears managed to escape from his otherwise angered expression. While still shaken from Sebastian’s aggressive outburst, Jim began to grow more concerned rather than frightened by his broken soldier. 

The stern face melted away as he spoke. “I—I thought you were,” Sebastian’s voice cracked, barely escaping an outburst of unwanted emotion, “—dead. You were dead. I stood there looking at your lifeless body and I was helpless to stop any of it. You… didn’t even say goodbye—"

The soldier slid down the wall to his knees. The muted crying was a further source of confusion. He stood frozen, examining the shaking, crumpled ball of human flesh at his feet. He'd never imagined that his strong soldier could be felled by something as insignificant as this. His first reaction was to be disgusted at the weakness, furthermore to be infuriated that his subordinate would address him the way that he had, but looking at Sebastian now, he remembered times when he was in distress and his tiger had come to his rescue and comforted him, whether that meant a loving hug or a bloody distraction. He wasn’t really sure what was the right thing to do. He could barely handle his own emotion, let alone the emotions of someone else. As he observed the scene before him, he realized that he didn’t have the faintest idea where to begin.

Jim knelt down beside his tiger and gave him an awkward hug. “It’s alright now.” he whispered.

“No, it’s not fucking alright and it never will be alright.” Sebastian replied, but all the anger was gone from his voice and left his words sounding more tired than anything else. After a few long moments, he looked up and met Jim’s eyes again. He’d composed himself for the most part, but his voice and tone remained subdued.

“I mean, you could have at least left a note.”

Jim chuckled. “What? A sticky note on the fridge: ‘faking my death, be home for dinner, buy milk?’”

“Yeah, something like that.”

They sat holding each other for quite some time, neither of them wanting to let the moment pass. Jim let the soldier’s head lay against his chest until Sebastian looked up at him once more.

“Don’t even think of doing something like that ever again, or I might just have to kill you myself.”

“Well, you know what they say,” Jim replied with the trademark sass creeping back into his voice, “Dead is the new sexy.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first posted fanfiction! So excited! MorMor is definitely my OTP, so I hope to write many more personal fanfictions in the near future! Thank you so much for taking the time to read! If you have any suggestions, please let me know.


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